Rotten Floorboards and Snuggling
by carsinya
Summary: StackhouseSheppard. Even the milk runs go pearshaped when Sheppard's around...


**A/N: I know this a (**_**very**_**) rare pairing, but I think it's got potential, so you'll more than likely be getting a couple more fics starring these two. Please review, it's always nice to hear what everyone thinks. I happily accept concrit so feel free to let me know if I can improve this in any way. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no matter how much I adore SGA. **

**---**

Sergeant Andrew Stackhouse was bored. His team, along with AR-1, had been offworld for a grand total of six hours and he'd already run out of ways to entertain himself without causing either explosions or permanent damage to anyone in the immediate vicinity. As it was, he was keeping himself busy by watching the back of Sheppard's head and trying to figure out whether or not his hair was that wild by choice. For God's sakes, it looked like it had a life of its own! Still, he couldn't deny that it looked good on him, even if it was non-regulation; the wind-swept look didn't work on everybody, but Sheppard pulled it off somehow, and made it look natural, too. Unless it really was naturally that chaotic, which would explain why he couldn't see any traces of mousse or hair gel.

And, woah, he'd been spending _way _too much time contemplating the Colonel's hair… definitely not a good thing, because next he'd be wondering if he had tan lines or something, and god, _there_ was a question he'd never thought he'd be asking himself.

Suppressing a sigh, he shifted restlessly and glanced up at the sky. The sun was already pretty low on the horizon, so if they were going to be heading home today, they'd better start packing up pretty soon. Come to think of it, he didn't remember if they were staying the night or not, just that there was a lot of translating to be done here and the linguist geeks were beside themselves with enthusiasm at having an entire temple's worth of Ancient writing to decipher. He glanced at his watch, noting that it had been a whole five minutes since he'd last checked; now _that_was showing some restraint. He had a habit of watching clocks when he was bored, just to see the hands move, but all the clocks they'd brought to Atlantis were digital, so he couldn't distract himself with them during briefings or when he was stuck baby-sitting the scientists.

Glancing around, he started to get to his feet. Turning to Sheppard, he murmured, "Sir, I'm gonna check the perimeter." The other man looked up at him from his sitting position and nodded, starting to stand as well.

"Alright, but I think I'll come with you." He made it sound casual, like he was just doing it because he didn't want anybody wandering off alone, but the Sergeant could hear the traces of relief in his voice. Apparently, he wasn't the only one bored out of his mind here. Flashing his CO a knowing grin, he waited for the other man to get all of his stuff together. A couple other Marines looked up as they started to walk away. After only a couple of steps, Sheppard half-turned and called out, "Stay alert, boys. Reed, you're in charge of holding the fort 'til I get back."

"Yes, sir!" the young Marine said crisply, nodding to him instead of saluting like he would've otherwise done. One of the first things you learned in the military was to _not_ give away the identity of your commanding officer while in the field. With a satisfied nod in return, Sheppard faced forward again and resumed walking. Stackhouse followed quietly, resisting the urge to look back and make a triumphant gesture to the rest of the Marines, several of whom had probably been planning to 'check the perimeter' themselves, just to break up the monotony a little bit. They entered the tree line in silence, save for the crunch of dried leaves and the snapping of twigs under their boots as they walked.

They hadn't gone far when they walked out into a smallish clearing, paying more attention to what looked to be an abandoned shack than the ground under their feet. Which, in hindsight, was just asking for trouble.

Colonel Sheppard started towards the shack, his P-90 at the ready even though he doubted he'd need to use it. He'd learned that exercising caution was usually one of the better options when doing these sorts of things. Stackhouse stayed close, ready to shove his CO out of the way if anything proved to be dangerous. John walked right up to the entryway, and nosed the door open with the muzzle of his gun. Scanning the room beyond, he stepped inside, and disappeared with a startled sound as the rotten floorboards under his feet gave way. Andrew lunged forward, fisting the back of John's tac vest in an attempt to haul him back up, but all he succeeded in doing was getting _himself _pulled down with him. He barely had time to register the fact that he was falling before he slammed headfirst into the floor.

Pain shot through his head, and everything went black.

---

Andrew woke slowly, eyelids fluttering open and then slamming shut again under the sudden onslaught of light. One of the first things he registered was the splitting headache he seemed to have acquired, causing him to seriously consider just going back to lala land for however long it would take to go away.

Suppressing a groan, he raised a hand to his face and rubbed it over his eyes. Vaguely, he was aware of movement nearby, and automatically tried to flinch away when a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"Easy, Sergeant," someone murmured, the drawling tenor of their voice oddly familiar, and out of nowhere fingers were carding through his hair, a gesture so natural that he couldn't help but lean into the touch with a barely-there sigh. "It looks like you bashed your head on something. You're bleeding, and you took quite a while to wake up, so I'd take it easy for a while if I were you." He started to nod, but stopped quickly when a spike of pain hit him, originating from somewhere on the back of his head. Involuntarily, his eyes started to drift closed again. "You're gonna have to stay awake, ok? Don't go to sleep on me."

The worry in the other's voice was well masked, but still leaked through slightly, despite the steady, deceptively light tone that was being used.

"Look, I'm gonna have to bandage it. Hold still," the other person ordered, the hand disappearing from his forehead for a moment while whoever it was looked through their pack for medical supplies. Something was laid out on the ground by him, but he couldn't see what it was- his eyes were still refusing to cooperate, making everything fuzzy and grey around the edges.

The head bandaging took a little longer than expected, since he couldn't seem to keep his head lifted up enough for the other person to get at it, his neck aching far more than it should've been. Eventually, the aforementioned other person shifted his head into his lap and turned his face to the side so that the bloody gash on the back of his head could be cleaned up. The angle was a little awkward, but they managed it after a bit of repositioning, and Stackhouse was allowed to lay his head back.

Andrew started to sit up, but found that his arms were like jelly, refusing to support his weight. Apparently things were a little more serious than he'd first thought. Gentle hands slid under his arms, helping him to get into a position that closely resembled sitting upright. He was able to stay that way for a moment, before he started listing to the right. With a sigh, the other person nudged him back over and then slid to the floor next to him, allowing him to lean against his side so he wouldn't do a face-plant. Slitting his eyes open, he was able to catch a quick glimpse of dark, unruly hair. It was enough to recognize him, though; Sheppard's hair was very distinct.

"Thank you, sir," he murmured.

"How're you feeling, Sergeant?" Sheppard asked, sounding concerned.

"I'm fine, sir. How 'bout you?"

"I'm good," the Colonel replied, keeping his voice quiet. "I tried to use your radio while you were out, but it was banged up in the fall. Mine's around here somewhere; I tried looking for it, but there's plenty of places it could've fallen into."

"Where exactly are we, sir? In the shack, obviously, but…?" Stackhouse asked, adding the last part to make sure Sheppard knew that there was no memory loss involved in his latest head injury. (Thank god!)

"It looks like some kind of cellar, but the stairs are rotting away. There's no way they'd hold up long enough for one of us to get out, let alone both of us. And before you say it, I'm not gonna leave you here alone with a head injury, even if there is a way out I haven't found yet."

"Naw, stay here. I kinda like being babied," he quipped with a crooked grin. "Looks like we're gonna have to wait it out, then."

"Yep. Y'know, I really didn't picture a quick look around turning out like this."

"Sir, either you've got really bad luck, or you did something to piss off somebody real important up there. Even the fucking milk runs go pear-shaped."

"Gee, thanks," John snorted, lips twitching. He wasn't going to admit it, but secretly he kind of agreed with Stackhouse. He must've been a real smartass in a previous life, or something.

"Sorry, sir, but it's the truth," Andrew said, inwardly grinning when John nodded, acknowledging the truth in the statement. They lapsed into silence after that, neither of them really in the mood for conversation. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, but it was long enough that he started to drift off again, and Sheppard had to shake him awake. The _last_ thing they needed was for him to fall into a coma.

---

After a while, the light from above, which had been kind of weak to start with, was starting to disappear. That wasn't good; with no way to contact anyone searching for them (which there no doubt would be; they'd been gone way too long for no one to notice their continued absence), they would probably end up spending the night down there. They had the flashlights on their P-90s, as well as the miniature ones they kept in their tac vests, so they at least would have some light when it got dark outside, but the temperature would drop, possibly to a dangerous level. It was late fall on this world, and even during the day everyone wore their jackets.

Stackhouse couldn't hide the shivering for long; even wearing his jacket, he was getting cold, and the sun wasn't even fully down yet. By morning, they'd probably look like popsicles. After a while, Sheppard seemed to notice and offered a weak smile, even though he was doing some shivering of his own.

"I think I'll build a vacation home here; I mean, it's practically tropical, it's so warm. What do you think, Sergeant?"

"Sounds great, sir," he snorted, trying and failing to repress a grin at the thought of Sheppard running around in a grass skirt and a coconut bra, with flowers in his hair. And god, thinking of Sheppard walking around like that was enough to make him have to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. "And when it starts snowing, I reserve the right to laugh my ass off at you."

The Colonel made a face at him, sticking his tongue out and everything. "Just for that, you're not invited to the housewarming party." He was smiling, but he sounded dead serious, and Andrew decided it would be in his best interests to shut up before his CO revoked any more party invitations.

---

He didn't know when exactly they decided it would be a good idea to huddle for warmth, only that the sun had gone down hours ago, and by that point his brain was so frozen that it wasn't even awkward to be curled up in his CO's arms, tufts of insanely wild hair tickling his face. John was snuggled up as close to him as humanly possible, arms snaked around his torso with his face pressed into the gap between his shoulder and neck, little puffs of air warming the skin there.

He drifted off not long after that, and when he next opened his eyes, light was streaming in through the gaping hole in the floor (or in this case, ceiling) overhead. He started to stretch, stiffened muscles protesting the motion, but was stopped by Sheppard, who, still asleep, tightened his hold on him and turned his face to bury it in the Sergeant's chest, muttering something that his still half-asleep brain couldn't decipher. Yawning widely, he settled back down and allowed the Colonel to use his chest as a pillow.

He couldn't seem to get rid of the dopey smile that was plastered on his face, watching his tough-as-nails commanding officer snuggle up against him in his sleep, looking so young and innocent it was fucking _sinful_. With a barely there sigh, he let his eyes drift closed again, and within moments had fallen back asleep. When the rescue team found them an hour and a half later, they were still in the exact same position. The first thing John heard upon waking was, "My god, are they _snuggling_?"

"Shut up, McKay," he retorted groggily. "You're just jealous."


End file.
